


A Foundation on Which to Build

by lynndyre



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Interspecies, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Though the worst of battle was over, the dwarves of the Iron Hills and their allies pursued the fleeing enemy through the long day.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Foundation on Which to Build

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuinzilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuinzilien/gifts).



Though the worst of battle was over, the dwarves of the Iron Hills and their allies pursued the fleeing enemy through the long day, until the paths from the mountain valley along the river were trodden dark with black blood, and corpses bobbed and caught the current. The goblin retreat had become a rout, and wargs and goblins alike fled in disorder, south and west. 

As the sun sank low Dain gathered his closest dwarves and turned back towards Erebor. The last orcish stragglers had made their way along the forest river to lose themselves in the marshy swampland beyond. Those of the lakemen and elves who knew that ground followed where the iron-shod dwarves might not. Further west, the trees rose dark, and Dain was grimly pleased at the thought of what would await any orc thinking to find safety there.

Those he had set to demolition should have opened a part of Thorin's wall by now, and Dain intended to see as many dwarves as possible safely ensconced in good, solid stone before the night deepened. Dwarves make light of burden or toil, but none from the Iron Hills had slept since yester-dawn, and had travelled hard through day and night both, to fight a far greater battle than any had anticipated.

From the west, goblin shrieks melted into hoofbeats, and a party of elves were riding back downstream. They were riding swiftly, but drew to a halt beside Dain's company. Dain recognised the bright gold hair of their leader before the green of their banner.

'Lord Dain. Do you return to the mountain?'

'Elvenking.' He inclined his head exactly as far as the elf had, and caught the edge of something that might have been a smile. 'I do.' Some spirit of exhaustion and perversity conspired within him. 'Give us a ride?'

The elf blinked. But his grip when he hauled Dain onto the horse behind him was surprising strong, and his elves moved to help Dain's guard willingly enough.

"If you go through Dale, I would know how my cousin fares."

Thranduil gave a single-word elven command, and the horses sprang forward."That is where we are bound."

The elvenking was silent as they rode, but it was a listening silence, active with intent. The elf horse's gait was smooth, rolling, nothing like a dwarven pony, and unnaturally swift. From its back, Dain could do nothing. He need not watch for enemies, he need not run, until they reached the mountain he need not act. It was a strange sensation, to trust to an elf. 

Nonetheless the time to plan was welcome. Thorin son of Thrain was dying. He who had been king under the mountain all of a few days, and would not see it renewed. Thorin's sister-sons were fallen, bright with golden strength and all the fire of youth, defending their uncle. That left Dain king of a mountain he had never lived in, guardian of a treasure he hadn't sought, and allied to both men and elves, the neighbors of what would be his new home. 

Dain had never been so close to an elf. During their hasty conference under the war-tent, time had not existed to think of anything but the battle before them. Thranduil was not as cold as Dain might have guessed. There was something of the glittering fire of elvish weapons about him, even with no blade drawn, but his body was warm and alive in Dain's grip. And the unbound, unbraided hair that blew against his helmet smelled green and sweet, an unlooked-for balm to the senses after the stench and spray of battle and of the dying.  
The elves did not stop upon reaching the valley, though those not double-mounted peeled away at their king's gesture to meet one of the groups that hailed them. Instead they made for Dale, and Thranduil drew up some little distance from the healers' tents.

Even as the elf handed him down, and his boots hit the stone, Dain knew he had returned too late. He moved towards the tent, but the sickbed had become a bier, and the blanket had been pulled up over Thorin's face. He let his hand rest heavy on his cousin's arm. The flesh was already returning to the solid chill of stone.

Balin son of Fundin tugged his beard to Dain, as did Dwalin his brother, and with all appropriate words and bows asked to tend Thorin's body. It was a simple enough boon to grant, but Dain felt it more keenly than he had thought to.

Outside the tent, the air had grown more chill, and the torches more numerous. The elven guard and his own had dispersed to their camp duties, but King Thranduil was some little way off, speaking to the wizard. He turned, and came forward to match Dain's path. There was a halt in his step – some injury that had gone hidden from Dain while on horseback. Even the Elvenking was not immune to battle.

"He is dead, then?" He must read it in Dain's countenance. "I am sorry." 

Dain bowed his acknowledgement. "He won his great quest. That's more than most." It was the eulogy of a cousin, not a succeeding monarch. "He will lie beneath the mountain he reclaimed." Dain thrust his thumbs beneath his broad belt, and looked at the sea of torch-fires swallowing the dusk. "You, and the lake-Man of Dale. Do you come and see him buried properly."

The elf inclined his head, and the forward spill of his hair shone yellow-gold in the torchlight with a molten purity. Dain tasted green at the roof of his mouth and musk in his throat.

He took his leave, conscious of sharp, animal desire.

 

That night, Dain laid himself on his bedroll and shut his eyes. Above the arched ceiling, the mountain rose in all its damaged, defiant splendor, and beneath him, the stone seemed to welcome the touch of his body. The halls, though some had been swept during Thorin's occupation, still smelled of dragon, and the air was stale in a way that told Dain many of the ventilation shafts would need unblocking or repair. He breathed out, and let the dark of underground and the downward press of stone give him space to think.

The battle itself hovered foremost— in pieces snipped from tapestry cloth, images unconnected to each other. The weight and swing of his axe in his hands, phantom grip tight despite hours without drawn steel. The thunk of steel connecting with flesh that echoed still in the sinews of his arms. 

The spread of wings and the downbeat of air as one of the eagles caught up a goblin in front of him. The scrape of dented armour. Bolg, son of the defiler, torn apart by the great bear Beorn, in a feat that had made Dain laugh outright in vindicated battle lust.

Lightning striking the mountain even as the wizard called them to halt, and the black storm of the enemy approaching. Dain did not like that charge. Thorin and he had planned an attack for that morn, if need be, and it had rankled to see that host drawn up at the gate, infuriated him that they thought to take and keep from the line of Durin. From the east banks of the river towards the encampment of men and elves, his dwarves had leapt forward to attack as one, spurred by the thought of the Arkenstone in the hands of the besiegers – and not by any given order. Whatever force had driven them, Dain misliked it more the longer he considered. The stone would require careful handling.

He turned his thoughts to better things, and finally he slept. 

He dreamed a forest, beneath the ground, with trunks of living stone and branches like the roots of the mountain. The grass beneath his feet was soft, springy with the tension of fine, woven, wire, and he emerged into a garden, where emerald leaves parted to show the buds of jeweled flowers. There was light, though not of sky, nor of lamps, and Dain saw that the light shining and sparking off of every leaf came from the figure in the center of the garden, glowing outward from his skin.

Dain woke to the taste of that wild green in his throat.

 

The days until Thorin's burial were marked with the counting of gold and bodies; with dragon dust and worse as the damage of Smaug's occupation came known. One fourteenth share of the treasure was set aside for Bard and the lake-men, in upholdance of Thorin's word. The remainder of the Company's contracts were dissolved, at need, on the grounds that the treasure had been obtained by the work of others, and Balin laid it out correct in contract law. Nonetheless Dain was generous. It was deserved, and could only help to dispel the dragon's influence on the treasure itself.

In the valley between the mountain's arms, the kin of those who would remain in Dale began to arrive, and the elven healers who had been tending the victims of Smaug's attack. Dwarves too came from the Iron Hills, and Dain set his Masons to work testing the strength of the edifices that remained.

The victorious dead, dwarf and man and elf, were laid to rest near where they had fallen, in graves beside the battle plain. Orcs and wargs and bats were piled high and burned, and the smoke of those fires was evil.

Fili and Kili were buried within the mountain, with Doral and Breslin who had followed Dain from the Iron Hills. Thorin was laid to rest with the greatest ceremony of all, the stone of his tomb inscribed with his titles, lineage, and deeds. At Dain's nod, Bard gave the Arkenstone into Thorin's keeping, and the tomb was shut. King Thranduil brought out the sword, and Orcrist showed no hint of blue. The mountain was clean of evil.

 

The elven host readied to depart, and Mr Baggins and Gandalf and Beorn with them. Thorin's company went to the mountain's foot to see them off, and Dain stood beside Thranduil as the hobbit said his goodbyes. He looked not up, no more did the Elvenking look down. Instead both their faces were turned towards Dale.

Erebor seemed willing to shrug her long shoulders and shake off the dragon's dust, and Dale likewise felt eager for dwarven hands to reshape her. Dain could see great things laid out, in potentia, across every broken pillar and scored wall. 

After a moment, he felt the other's glance. The elf's voice was pitched not to carry. "King Dain. You will be very good for this place."

A moment later the hobbit was pulling away, he and the wizard shouting back, and Thranduil offered Dain a parting nod, already remounted. He turned his horse's head toward the front of the column.

The line of elves vanished into the distance, and Dain rubbed his hands together. He had _building_ to do.


End file.
